He Fangchuan leaned against the altar, his fingertips unconsciously stroking the jade pendant with the inscription "Qin." Suddenly, a familiar burning sensation ripped through his chest—it was the fragment of stardust he'd brought from the Hanyuan Sword.
This strange fragment was the only thing he'd "brought" from the modern world during his time travel. He remembered the day he'd copied a rubbing of the Hanyuan Sword from the museum. His fingertips pressed against the copper-rusted depression on the hilt, and he felt the dark silver fragment hidden within. Just as he was about to take a closer look, the entire sword erupted in a blinding white light, engulfing him in endless darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, he was a dying remnant of the He family. He'd long since mastered the fragment's nature: the closer it came to the anomalous movement of spiritual energy, the more intensely it burned.
"Young Master, look at this..." Zhong Bo suddenly lowered his voice, pointing to the stone where the account books were being baked. A thin layer of frost had formed there at some point. The firewood in the fire pit was still burning brightly, yet the frost formed quickly and densely, gleaming a blinding white in the morning light.
He Fangchuan's heart skipped a beat. This wasn't natural frost! He instinctively pressed his hand against his chest, the warmth of stardust rising up his clothes.
"Uncle Zhong, quickly put away the account books. Quickly." He Fangchuan's voice trembled.
As soon as he finished speaking, a faint sound came from outside the ancestral hall—not the wind, not the chirping of birds, but the sweep of a sword tassel across the ground.
He Fangchuan spun abruptly, meeting the eyes beyond the broken window.
Her brows reached deep into her temples, the corners of her eyes sharp as blades. Her pupils, a nearly transparent glaze, were now fixed on him through the window. Her gaze swept across the scabs on his face, the account books in his arms, and finally rested on his hand pressed against his chest.
That gaze, as sharp as a falcon's, seemed to penetrate flesh and reach the very bone marrow—this was Du Zhaochen of Xixiuque, the executioner who had razed the entire He family.
He Fangchuan's breath hitched for a moment.
He seemed even more lonely and cold than he remembered. His moon-white brocade robe was neatly cut, its wide sleeves draped without a wrinkle. The silver thread embroidered along the hem was faintly visible in the morning mist, yet he remained spotless, as if he had never trodden the mundane world.
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his figure towering like a solitary peak. The chill that lingered around him wasn't the bitter cold of winter, but the unmelted ice of a snowy mountaintop. He carried an aloofness that kept people at arm's length, yet, thanks to his striking face, he evoked a terrifying sense of oppression.
"He Fangchuan, you're lucky," Du Zhaochen said, his voice as clear as ice against jade.
He Fangchuan was terrified. The stardust burned his chest again, making him tremble. The lingering hatred of its former owner surged through his blood. But he forced himself to remain calm—Du Zhaochen's eyes held no surprise, only scrutiny.
"The Immortal Venerable has recognized the wrong person." He Fangchuan dug his fingertips into his palm, his nails almost digging into his flesh.
Du Zhaochen didn't respond, simply raised his hand. His hand had distinct joints, and his fingertips shone a cold white like jade. He casually pressed against the broken door—
"Boom!"
The two rotten wooden doors exploded in mid-air, sending sawdust and morning mist swirling in, bringing a bone-chilling chill. Zhong Bo collapsed to the ground in fear, clutching the account book tightly to his chest.
Du Zhaochen walked slowly in, the hem of his white robe sweeping the splintered wood. His gaze flicked over the wine gourd on the altar, and a barely perceptible frown crossed his face. It wasn't emotion, more like disgust at the sight of something so foreign. He turned back, his gaze settling on He Fangchuan. "Three years ago, at the banquet at Xixiu Que, you said the essence of the He family's swordsmanship lay in 'guarding.'"
He Fangchuan felt a cold sweat run down his back. The original owner certainly remembered this, but how could Du Zhaochen remember it? He suddenly realized—this person didn't remember him, but the words. To the number one swordsman at Xixiu Que, any statement regarding swordsmanship was perhaps like words carved in stone: irrelevant to the speaker, only to whether or not it was worthy of attention.
"Your Immortal Venerable have a truly excellent memory." He Fangchuan forced a stiff laugh. "It's a pity that with our family destroyed, the 'guarding' technique couldn't protect our parents."
He deliberately emphasized the last few words, the original owner's hatred threatening to burst through his throat. Du Zhaochen's eyelashes twitched imperceptibly, not with emotion, but more like hearing an insignificant noise. His pale pupils remained frozen like a lake. "The He family is colluding with the Demon Cult. The evidence is irrefutable."
"What evidence?" He Fangchuan stepped forward. "Is it that Demon Cult token that appeared out of nowhere, or the forged letter? Would you dare let me see it, Immortal Venerable?"
He spoke rapidly, his tone questioning a modern man, a stark contrast to the original owner's gentle demeanor. Du Zhaochen was indeed stunned. His gaze lingered on his face for a moment, his glazed eyes reflecting his bewildered appearance.
"How dare you!" His tone was devoid of anger, only the indifference of a superior to an ant's presumption. "Hand over the account books."
"What is it?" He Fangchuan retreated back toward the altar.
Du Zhaochen flashed, as swift as a streak of white light, appearing before him in an instant. He Fangchuan felt a chill wash over him, carrying the chill of a snowy mountaintop. He instinctively raised his hand to block it, but the opponent easily grasped his wrist. The fingers were icy cold, yet their grip was surprisingly powerful, causing pain in his wristbone. The calluses on his fingertips, thin from years of wielding swords, felt sharp as a blade.
"Immortal Venerable, are you trying to snatch it?" He Fangchuan gritted his teeth. A glimpse of the tinderbox on the edge of the altar led to his kick at the fire pit. Sparks flew onto Du Zhaochen's white robe, but were deflected by an invisible barrier. The momentary delay was enough for him to toss the account book to Zhong Bo and then grab the wine gourd and throw it at Du Zhaochen.
Du Zhaochen dodged to the side, his movements quick and decisive, without a single wasted second. His sleeves fluttered like the wings of a white bird, yet exuded a commanding presence that brooked no challenge. His wide sleeves brushed He Fangchuan's cheek. The gourd clattered against the wall, spilling wine all over the floor. The strong aroma of alcohol clashed with the cedar scent of Du Zhaochen, highlighting the former's vulgarity and the latter's elegance.
"You're hanging out with Qin Feng." Du Zhaochen's grip on his wrist suddenly intensified. Liuli's eyes gleamed even colder, her gaze fixed on the traces of the golden medicine on the inside of his wrist. "The remnants of the Demon Cult are quite picky about their allies."
"Your Excellency, you even control who gives me medicine?" He Fangchuan said with a deliberately flamboyant smile, mimicking Qin Feng's tone. "Are you afraid that a 'remnant' like me might uncover something I shouldn't?"
Du Zhaochen's fingertips suddenly tightened, squeezing He Fangchuan's wrist so tightly that it nearly broke. He leaned forward, and the distance between them suddenly closed. He Fangchuan could smell the cool fragrance of his hair and clearly see the bruises beneath his eyes—marks of years of sleepless practice, far from some "fresh beauty." Instead, it gave the impression that this man had already forged himself into a sword, devoid of blood and tears.
"Qin Feng is the adopted son of the Demon Cult's Left Envoy," Du Zhaochen's voice was extremely low, cold as ice. "Do you really think he would truly help you?"
He Fangchuan was stunned. Qin Feng is a member of the Demon Cult? How could it be possible? Stardust throbbed in his chest, as if warning him of the danger behind this news.
Before he could process it, Du Zhaochen suddenly released his hand and turned to look outside the ancestral hall. The rustling of a robe echoed through the morning mist; the disciple of Xixiu Que had arrived. He stood with his back to He Fangchuan, his shoulders and back straight, like a sword poised for release, its edge hidden.
"Hand over the account books, and I'll keep your body intact."
He Fangchuan rubbed his aching wrist, still cold. He suddenly smiled—an intact body? Lin Ziqi hadn't come to this chaotic world to seek a dignified death.
"I can give you the account books." He slowly stood up, his fingertips tracing the rough booklet in his arms. The edges of the pages were still stained with dust from the ancestral hall altar—he had hurriedly made it while waiting for Qin Feng in the ancestral hall, while the real account books were already in Zhongbo's bag. "But I have a condition."
"You're not in a position to negotiate."
"I do. I know the suspicious points in the He family case, and I know what that 'cult token' is. Let Zhongbo go, and I'll tell you, and I'll give you the account books too."
He was gambling, betting that Du Zhaochen didn't completely believe the so-called "evidence" in the He family case.
Du Zhaochen was silent for a long time, so long that He Fangchuan thought he wouldn't agree. Then he slowly said, "Okay. You stay."
"I'll stay." He Fangchuan quickly winked at Zhongbo and watched as the old man, clutching the account book, slipped through the hole in the back wall.
They were the only two left in the ancestral hall, the air frozen like ice. As Du Zhaochen took the account book and flipped through it, his profile looked even colder and harder in the morning light. His long eyelashes drooped, obscuring the emotion beneath his eyes.
He Fangchuan stared at his fingertips, his Adam's apple rolling. His voice lingered with a raspy edge—the burn from the fire three days before.
"Three days ago, when the fire in the He Mansion was still blazing, the Immortal Venerable stood on the gatehouse, sword in hand. I remember it clearly."
Du Zhaochen paused in his flipping through the account book. The morning light slanted across his brow, splitting his hard outline in two. When he raised his eyes, his glazed pupils seemed to be filled with ashes. "You weren't dead then."
It wasn't a question, it was a statement.
The bloody dusk instantly crashed into He Fangchuan's mind: flames licking the carved window lattices, his mother's last warmth as she pushed him toward the back door, his sister's heart-wrenching cries cut off by sword energy. The white-clad figure on the gatehouse, like an ice sculpture, watched the He family crumble into ash in the flames. As he was dragged into the secret passage by Zhong Bo, his back still stained by flying sparks, he turned back to see Du Zhaochen wielding his sword to smash the "He Mansion" sign.
"Thanks to the Immortal Venerable, I'm still alive," Du Zhaochen sneered. "When the Immortal Venerable held up that 'Demon Cult Token' and shouted to the neighbors, 'The He Family is collaborating with the enemy,' didn't you think it was too new? My father has an old token hidden in his study for thirty years, the edges are all worn away, nothing like that one..."
"Shut up." Du Zhaochen suddenly closed the book, the edge wrinkled from being pinched.
Three days ago, the smell of blood mixed with the smell of burning still lingered in the He Mansion. He had indeed not examined the token closely—the Sect Master said "the evidence is irrefutable," and the sword of Xiuxiu Que never needed to question the details of an order.
"The token was personally granted by the Sect Master. He Xuan is colluding with the Demon Cult, and there is witness and evidence. Any more you say is just a desperate struggle."
"Witness? He remembered what Uncle Zhong had told the original owner: that on the eve of the extermination, a "messenger from Xiuxiuque" had met his father alone. After the messenger left, his father had locked himself in his study, unable to sleep all night. "Was that the 'messenger' who sneaked into my father's study three evenings ago?"
Du Zhaochen's pupils suddenly constricted. He recalled that on the eve of the extermination, the head of the sect had sent a trusted confidant to "deliver a message" to He Xuan, claiming they were "discussing important matters." At the time, he had thought it was just a routine contact, but now that He Fangchuan had pointed it out, the timing of that "message" suddenly became particularly glaring, like adding fuel to the fire, burning a hole in the "evidence."
"How did you know..."
"My father left a note in the secret passage." He Fangchuan interrupted him, his tone steady, as if he were stating a fact (though in reality, it was a gamble, a desperate move). "He said the messenger forced him to plead guilty to 'collaborating with the enemy,' otherwise..." He paused deliberately, watching Du Zhaochen's Adam's apple roll, "then let Xixiuque 'clean up its house.'"
The scene from three days ago shifted in Du Zhaochen's mind: as he sheathed his sword, He Xuan's body collapsed in the study, clutching a half-sheet of blood-soaked paper. At the time, he'd thought it was "evidence," but upon closer inspection, the handwriting on the paper was distorted, more like... the signs of a struggle.
"Come back to Xixiuque with me." For the first time, a subtle strain lingered in Du Zhaochen's voice. "I'll investigate the 'note' you mentioned, the evidence your father left behind." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the burn blisters on He Fangchuan's face. They were caused by a spark three days ago. The wound, like a thorn, pierced the aloofness he had maintained as an "executor." "If there's any injustice in what happened three days ago, Xiuxiu Que will give you an explanation."
"Oh." He Fangchuan looked at him, a faint bluish-black tinge beneath his eyes—the mark of two sleepless nights spent guarding the ancestral hall examining the bodies after the family's massacre. The burning pain from the stardust slowly faded, leaving behind a strange tremor, like two swords, freshly bloodied, clashing in their sheaths for the first time.
"Okay," he heard himself say. "I'll go with you."